


you and me could make something sweet

by Khismer



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Spoilers for everything, baking cookies, gender neutral reader (no pronouns)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 22:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7775878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khismer/pseuds/Khismer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So,” you say, trying to sound as casual as you can, and probably failing miserably. “…you get a treat if you listen to older men, huh?”<br/>“—what?” Saeran looks confused for a moment, and then he stiffens and – you can’t be sure, but you think – his eyes widen, just a little. “You…”<br/>He really should have known you’d hold him accountable for the things he said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you and me could make something sweet

You’re spending most of your time split between Saeyoung’s hideout and Rika’s apartment, enough to almost make you forget that you have a place of your own. Or that you’re _supposed_ to, anyway.

Saeran… well, you’re past the point of worrying that he’s going to run off, but Saeyoung doesn’t want him to be alone. He doesn’t want to _leave_ him alone, either, but Saeran needs space, and as cautious as Saeyoung is, he knows this. …but if he asks you to check up on his brother, well, doesn’t that still count?

You had swung by your place to grab ingredients, whatever mix you may have, but of course, seeing as it’s been  _ weeks  _ since you’ve been there longer than a few hours, the only ones there are all a little past their sell-by dates. That’s… fine, right? They last longer than that don’t they?

A quick search online confirmed that yes, it’s almost certainly just fine, but… on the other hand, doing it from scratch _would_ give you something to focus on if you can’t manage to start a conversation.

So now you’re here, grocery bags weighing down your arms, and you can’t help but think you’re gearing up to make the most awkward batch of cookies ever.

There’s been… an awkward sort of dancing around. For you, anyway – you can never be sure of his thoughts on you or, well, on anything. Maybe he’s perfectly comfortable after all.

After all, he’s… not actually avoiding you, you suppose. It not like he _leaves_ when he comes around, or refuses to speak entirely. But he’s quiet around you. Saeyoung says that’s not unusual, but you’ve heard the tail ends of some of their arguments – if they can be called that when they sound so one-sided – and so you’re not fully satisfied with the short responses you can sometimes coax out of him. You don’t know if maybe he really _is_ quiet with anyone but Saeyoung, or if he’s just uninterested in you. Frustratingly, you feel as if you haven’t had the chance to find out.

But you, you’ve been so  _ curious _ , all this time, about  _ so  _ much, but you didn’t want it to seem like an interrogation, before, and now that he seems to be settling in, you still don’t know how to go about asking.

Often, he just kind of watches you. And his stare is… intense. _He’s_ kind of intense.

So.

You’re determined to make this attempt.  

Saeyoung told you the usual spots to check, so you dump the bags in the kitchen and make a slow circuit around the place.

You don’t have to do much searching. You find him in the space he’s claimed as his room. The door’s open, but it’s lit only by the light from the hallway, and he’s got his arm tossed over his face. You think, for a second, that he’s asleep, but as you turn away he shifts, and his arm falls away.

You stare at him headlong, pale eyes meeting yours.

“…Hey,” you say. “I’m making cookies.” He blinks slowly at you, once, twice. “Come help,” you say.

You think he’s going to refuse – it’d make sense – but he rolls his shoulders, unhurried, then sits. You take this as a sign that he’ll follow after you, or… maybe that he just wants to move to somewhere you won’t interrupt his thoughts. Hard to say.

Still, you make your way back to the kitchen and begin to pluck ingredients from the bags.

Flour, baking soda, and salt in one bowl, and in the other, butter, both sugars, and vanilla, all at once. Or does vanilla come after?

You scroll through your pics to find the recipe, just to be sure, and… heh. It’s screenshots of the RFA app from there on out. You took more in the beginning, when you were still unsure of whether you could trust the situation, so there’s a lot more of –

“What?”

You startle a little when Saeran speaks up, unaware that he’d followed you into the kitchen already. He’s looking at you oddly, leaning on the kitchen counter a few feet away. Ah – you were smiling at the screen. “Uh, nothing,” you say. You lower your phone and try to stifle your smile.

Butter, sugars, and vanilla extract can all be set out together, and somewhere in the bags you have measuring cups, and… this isn’t really working. You can’t keep your attention on the recipe. You keep stealing glances, despite yourself. 

His roots are starting to grow back in, a barely-there shock of red above white. He keeps shifting like he’s uncomfortable in this space, uncomfortable in his skin, picking at the sleeves of his sweater and pulling them further over his fingers. You keep wondering if he remembers what he said. From your peripheral, you can see he stays suspicious, shooting you wary glances on occasion. “So,” you say, trying to sound as casual as you can, and probably failing miserably. “…you get a treat if you listen to older men, huh?”

“—what?” Saeran looks confused for a moment, and then he stiffens and – you can’t be sure, but you _think_ – his eyes widen, just a little. “You…”

“Oh, haven’t you heard of that saying?”

“No,” he says, ducking down a little sullenly, and your suppressed smile widens, despite yourself.

“You  _ sure _ ?” You give your phone a wiggle. “Because I’ve got some screenshots that might, ah, jog your memory?”

“Well,” he says, and you have to stifle a laugh at how petulant he now sounds, “it  _ worked _ , didn’t it?”

“Mmh,” you say.

He frowns. “…‘Mmh?’”

“Mmmmmmh,” you say, enjoying how his frown deepens as you extend the sound. “We-ellll,” you say, “I _kind_ of went despite that.”

“ _ Really _ .”

“C’mon, you think I wasn’t a _little_ hesitant about following a complete stranger’s directions to some unknown apartment complex?”

“You  _ went anyway _ . ”

“I did!” You concede. “So, alright, I guess it _did_ work.”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy him, and ‘ _don’t pout_ ’ rests on your tongue when you glance over, but you want to tease him, not make him resent you. Instead, you say, “I _almost_ talked myself out of it in the elevators, you know.” You pause to measure out vanilla – it spills out, a few excess drops dripping over the edge, but that’s fine – before you continue. “Fourteen floors is a long way to go. Gives you time to think.”

He shifts, leaning an elbow onto the counter. “Why didn’t you?”

You pause, considering. “Not sure,” you say. “Guess I thought I could still make a break for the stairs if it went wrong.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“No?” You’re too absorbed in getting an even amount of sugar in to focus on further questions. Damn, you should have done the vanilla last. No take-backs if you go over.

Though you continue measuring, you can feel his eyes on you for another long moment. “I was meant to stop you if you did.”

He looks away as you, startled, turn to him, and for a moment you think he has the grace to feel embarrassed about it, but when he looks back there’s no trace of any such conflict on his face. Huh.

Is he serious? Would you have been, what, whisked away to Mint Eye if you’d tried to leave then? That’s… a distinct possibility, actually, though it’s not the most comforting thought. It certainly lines up with what you saw of Mint Eye.

You pause, tapping your fingers on the bowl as you stare down into it, and you try to eye him without turning your head. He doesn’t _feel_ threatening, standing in a kitchen with splotches of spilled flour on the elbows of his slightly-oversized sweater.

It’s not exactly _all better_ just because it didn’t happen, but it _didn’t_ happen, and it’s… less ominous when you’re hearing it now, when so much time has passed since then. 

“Hmm,” is what you finally say. “Maybe it’s best for both of us that didn’t happen, then.” 

You suppose can always  be indignant later, when you’ve had  a little longer to think it over.

And now… it’s easy enough to measure out the ingredients, but then – does Saeyoung really not have a mixer? A cookie scoop, you get, and you can always just use a spoon, but no mixer? There’s nothing of the sort in any of the drawers or cabinets you can reach. Of course, you could always ask. Saeran might know. 

It takes a moment to fight through the hesitation to voice it. “Saeran, does Saeyoung have a mixer?”

“I’ve never seen him use one.” He glances around, looking uninterested. “I’ve never seen him use any of this.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, who needs real food when you’ve got Honey Buddha Chips?”

Alright, if there  _ is _ a mixer, it’s definitely not at eye level. You look around the kitchen once more, just in case, then haul yourself up onto the counter to better search the cabinets.

“So… who was that?” you ask, then clarify, “in the picture you sent.”

“…Nobody important,” he says.

“Just some guy?” When there’s still nothing in the first cabinet, you edge sideways to the next one, and you wobble a little – and then there’s a gentle pressure on your lower back.

Saeran, come to stand behind you, a hand up to steady you, glancing off to the side. “Just some guy,” he repeats. After a moment, he looks up, and his clear, clear eyes meet yours, and _suddenly_ the nearly-bare cupboard before you is a _lot_ more interesting. “Pulled the source,” he says.

“Rrright. So I couldn’t try to reverse image search and find out he wasn’t a student living abroad after all. Clever. But what if I’d known him before, by chance?”

“You didn’t.”

You pause. Ah. Right. He did pick you, after all. You suppose he would know.

When you shuffle to the side to start the cupboard search anew, he follows after you. “Why’d you pick  _ that _ guy, anyway?”

“I thought you might find him…” he considers. “…trustworthy.”

“Oh yeah? I thought you might say it was because I was supposed to find him cute, because then, y’know, you could’ve just sent me _your_ picture.” You grin as you say it, but as you look back to meet his gaze, you realize he looks startled, and you rethink your words. Ahh – damn. “Well, uh, trustworthy – trustworthy works too.” If you keep your voice light, maybe he won’t know if you’re joking or not.

You spend another moment staring into a cupboard that is very clearly bare, just to give yourself a minute to burn with embarrassment, then shuffle back on your knees almost to the edge until he gets the hint and steps away. You hop down from the counter.  “Ah… so, that was a bust. Guess we’re doing it by hand. Take this?” You push the bowl of flour to him and start working at the other bowl.

It’s harder without a mixer, which gives you an excuse to focus on the recipe and make less of a fool out of yourself. The quiet is punctuated by instructions; “here, tip in more? Yeah, that’s great” and “hand me the – oh. Yes, that one, thanks.” 

You don’t see him spill anything but when you pour in chocolate chips at last and look up, you see a dozen more spots of flour marring his sweater. You laugh before you can help it, and he scowls when he follows your gaze, plucking the end of his sweater and pulling it out to see all the marks. He brushes at them, but that only makes it worse, and you grin.

“Ahh, leave it, it’s a lost cause now. Here,” you say, and hand him a spoon. “Gotta use these to measure the dough.”

He shoots you a quizzical look, but takes it. “...why this?”

You shrug. “I didn’t bring a scoop, so this’ll have to do.”

He ends up being better at it than you are, if a little slower, and soon you have a cookie sheet, all filled up and oven-ready. 

You set a timer from memory, then hop up to sit on the counter as you double-check the time. Yep, thirteen minutes, no need to adjust it. 

And then you keep scrolling through pictures. You pause on one, and you ask the question that’s been eating at you. 

“So… why me?”

“You fit,” Saeran says simply. His gaze does not waver as he looks at you, but he picks at his sleeves. “I thought they’d trust you.” Then he tilts his head. “And you were cute.”

Your laugh is bashful, and, unsure of what to say, you end up looking down and at the screenshot again. Your lips pull up and in a voice as casual as you can make it, you ask, “So you, uh, still think maybe this was ‘meant to be?’” You wonder if it might be pushing it to bring up that first conversation again – and then you jolt as he pulls at your wrist to see the screen.

You hadn’t even realized he crossed the kitchen. Saeran frowns at the screen, then at you, then back, and – hey, wait, is he trying to delete it?

“Hey!” You pull back quick enough to loosen his grip, and twist to hold your phone aloft and away. 

“Just  _ delete  _ them,” he huffs, and he’s so exasperated you can’t help but giggle. 

“Nooooo, c’mon, it’s not that bad, leave it!”

“Why  _ not _ ? _ ” _

“I  _ like  _ having them. I’ll remember you said it even if you do get rid of them, you know!”

“Maybe,” he says, and almost manages to pluck it from your grasp, “but then you wouldn’t be looking at it anymore.” Time for a new tactic.

You scoot backwards on the counter until your head taps the cupboard above and you try to hide your phone behind your back. 

Your victory does not last. It only takes a minute for your evasions to fail, and soon Saeran’s hand closes around yours and your grip loosens and –

Oh. 

It sinks in all at once. He’s close. He’s very close. He’s leaning into you and his arms are on either side of you, caging you loosely, and he is very, very close. 

His shoulders hunch. He lets go of your hand abruptly, but his hand lingers, hovering just above. “...why do you keep those?”

“I don’t know. It’s–” Endearing in a weird way, thinking of him typing it, sending in in earnest. “Just… nice to remember how everything started?” You press your lips together, then sigh. “Because it’s cute?” You offer a sheepish smile. 

“Cute.”

“Mm _ hmm _ , cute.” You can see him squint a little. “A good enough reason?”

“Maybe.” Saeran shifts, leans in a little more, keeping his eyes on you, watching for your reaction, and then he presses forward, just barely, closes the gap a little more. It’s hardly any closer but  _ oh _ , how close it feels. Your breath catches, and his lips curl slightly. 

You’re still, hardly moving, and there’s a pause, a moment where you just wait, blinking up at him, and -- 

He pulls away. 

There’s an immediate flood of disappointment.  _ You  _ may be pouting, now. 

“You know… you  _ did _ listen to me,” he says at last. He tilts his head, regarding you carefully with his clear, clear eyes. 

“Yeah?” It doesn’t strike you at first.

“And I  _ did  _ promise.”

“--ah.” Oh,  _ that’s  _ what he means.

“So…” That’s a definite smile now, small and mischievous, but unmistakable. “Do you want that treat now?”

You’ll have a hell of a time explaining those burned cookies to Saeyoung.

**Author's Note:**

> yes I know the title is beyond cheesy it's 2am


End file.
